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Michael Alleman

The Waiting Room


Into the eyeless sockets

the fog has already rolled.

Beyond the closing of the door,

the noses are gathered

from their faces.  Only the noises

are left.  Autumn rustles

in plastic sacks.

Shoes click their tongues and sigh

and the nervous water hushes them.

In the end, the practical, the inevitable

voice will arrive, colorless

like its coat.

Until then, the machine that prints receipts

clears its throat.

Brett Stout Broken_Hands_Converge_A_Brea
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